


Satin Stitches

by Toasterama



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toasterama/pseuds/Toasterama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have been slaving away at this project for almost three weeks. It would be lying to say you are not proud of it, but it definitely still needs some work. Frazzled as you are, you refuse to rest until it's completed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satin Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> AN: First time doing anything on here. Thanks for reading, please critique?

It is the late afternoon.  
Summer is in full swing. Children are off from school, and several families are on vacation. The atmosphere is rich with heat and laziness. Teenagers lounge in impractical swimming suits, loudly throwing parties at the house of whoever has a pool. Strains of pop music filter through the air.  
Your desk is littered with empty teacups and spools of thread.  
You have been slaving away at this project for almost three weeks. It would be lying to say you are not proud of it, but it definitely still needs some work. Frazzled as you are, you refuse to rest until it's completed.  
The dress is dark purple, fashioned out of a sleek, satiny fabric. It is lengthy and flowing. Designs are expertly stitched into the cloth, depicting creeping florals. It is cut off the shoulder, with a relatively conservative neckline and a plunging back. In said back, there is black, corset-laced ribbon crisscrossing to keep both sides together. A small, pale yellow bow slightly above the bust provides a pop of color. It is much more formal than most people your age would wear.  
But then, you have always considered yourself ahead of your time.  
For nineteen days, you have been stitching and re-stitching, taking in and taking out, trying out your new ideas only to realize that they detract. You have been inspired and discouraged. This dress has made you cry twice. Four times, you have pulled an all-nighter trying to perfect it, all to no avail. You know it's pretty much impossible, but you will settle for nothing less than exemplary.  
And you think you might be close.  
The dress is nearing its finished state. You're mostly happy with how it looks, although your perfectionist's criticizing eye finds flaws in everything if you think too hard. You have no idea who it will go to, though. You were originally going to keep it, but your closet is already full, and it doesn't flatter you at all. And although you tried to make it as average in size as possible, it wouldn't fit on any of your friends. Too big for Nepeta, too tight for Aradia, too short for Feferi, too long for Terezi. It would have fit Vriska perfectly, but she rejected it, saying it was too formal. Several times you have mentally kicked yourself for having such diversely-sized friends. You could pass it over to one of your male friends, but it's silly to think any one of them would want it. It would be written off as a gag gift, and you want nothing to do with that sort of business. Only the best for your magnum opus. You will probably end up selling it, which makes you sad. You don't want some perfect stranger to own your beautiful work of art.  
Your room is a grade-a mess. A hot mess, one could say. You've closed the windows to block out the loud high schoolers, and your lack of air conditioning isn't helping the temperature. What can you say? You're the dictionary definition of a starving artist, and paying for frivolties like that would set you back more than you can deal with. It's probably over a hundred degrees, you guess. You have more important matters on your hands, though. The state of your room is also placed somewhere below the heat. Cloth scraps litter the hardwood floor- taffeta, silk, ribbon, and even cotton. This is a little weird, as you haven't used cotton in your dress, but you don't think too much about it. A heavy smell of tea hangs in the air. Caffeine has been your saving grace for this project. And the evidence of this is clear- teacups and teabags are literally all over the place. You've been too 'involved in your project', which is a nice euphemism for 'lazy', to clean up. Thread bits and buttons are also scattered across the room.  
Someday soon, you'll tidy up the place. But for now, you have bigger fish to fry.  
The dress is finally coming into place. Where once there was nothing but a shapeless ream of cloth has become, truly, a masterpiece. You feel like a proud mother, watching her child prepare for the first day of kindergarten. Only a couple more stitches, and you will consider this a done deal.  
And then you realize you're out of thread.  
And also that you've been out of thread for a long time.  
You think it's time for a trip to the fabric store.  
This is the kind of thing that merits a huge tantrum, in which you end up eating three pints of ice cream and sobbing profusely into your pillow. However, in your current state, your mind is so frayed that you can't even begin to feel irritated. Instead, there is the sense of robotic duty that one might imagine an ant or a bee having. The feeling that you have to do something, the dry hive-mind sort of thing. There is a mild annoyance, sure, but all it does is tug at the back of your conscience.  
You stiffly run a brush through your tousled, pixie-cut hair. There is little time for something fashionable today, but you pull together an outfit consisting of a pale, loose shirt, a denim cropped jacket, and a bright, floral-print miniskirt. It is depressing, compared to how trendy you look usually, but you aren't especially worried. There are still the unfortunate souls who wear Crocs.  
You feel very superior.  
Hurriedly, you apply your makeup. Dark eyeshadow. Deep red lipstick. Bold lines of eyeliner. A few strokes of volumizing mascara. Three dabs of blush per cheek. Your selection of makeup is impressive, and if you felt particularly artsy, you could paint a very good replica of Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Maybe someday you will, if you're that bored.

The fabric store is not that far of a drive from your house. The AC in your car is a welcome change, and you are a bit sad to leave it when you reach your destination. But the fabric store has and probably always will be one of your favorite places, so you don't dwell on it too much.  
It smells of spices inside the store. Sandalwood and cinnamon, to be exact. It's always smelled like this, and you were never able to figure out why. But it's a pleasant scent.  
The thread display is at the back of the store, which means you have to walk past all those temptations. Oh, God. The things you could buy. Luxurious, full fabrics. Thick and comfortable, while retaining the ability to hold up for a long time. Fire resistant, too. There are aisles upon aisles of this. It is a very, very quality store, and you love it very much.  
You linger on the shelf of silk for a while, brushing your fingers across the reams. They are cool to the touch, and soft. You love the sensation- unrivaled by anything else. To you, a handful of good cloth is almost as good as a kitten. If it weren't something probably considered a sign of insanity, you would fill your house with this stuff. Every color, every thickness, every variety. You would live in a veritable paradise of cloth. All the cloth. All of it. Crazy cloth lady.  
You were always the strange kid in school.  
It is hard, but you force yourself to move on. You have only one thing to buy, and you've brought exactly enough cash to buy that one thing. One spool of thread is all you're getting today.  
The thread display is just as captivating. There is a rainbow of colors, from chartreuse to eggplant and back. You hover more around the eggplant end of the spectrum, though you are particularly attracted to the shades of blue.  
Threadsexual.  
Your fingers eventually close on a spool of midnight purple, only slightly different than what you ran out of. That one wasn't in stock, so you had to improvise. You're a master at doing just that.  
But your eyes dart back to the display, hungry for more. You will only run out of thread again. And there's a pretty good sale. As for your limited amount of cash? Credit cards weren't invented for nothing.  
You grab a couple more variations of the color, and the best-looking other shades. Lime green, crimson, cyan, ebony, even one called 'Mongoose'. You couldn't pass it up. Where else would you find something like that? You lean back, forcing yourself to pull away and think about getting some more cloth.  
Oh, no.  
You have more cloth than you can deal with already. You don't have any more room. You've resorted to keeping it in the refrigerator, even. On more occasions than one, you have found swatches in your food.  
It's kind of gross.  
You sigh, and begrudgingly start to go to the register. But not before a voice chimes behind you.  
“Can I help you?”  
You turn around. The voice belongs to a girl- a short, pale girl, with platinum blonde hair and dark purple eyes. Her eyes are beautiful. You find yourself staring at them, before realizing that you probably seem a bit like a creeper. She has delicate, pointed features, a slightly curvy build, and a very elegant air. She wears the shop apron over a pink, form-fitting shirt and a black skirt.  
Your heart skips a beat.  
“I...no, thanks, I'm good,” you stammer, trying hard to regain your composure. “Do I...know you from somewhere?” Butterflies swarm in your stomach.  
A quizzical look crosses the girl's face. “I don't think so,” she says. “I'm new in town, so I doubt we've met before. I'm Rose...Rose Lalonde. Does the name ring a bell?”  
You think, but it's hard, because you can't pry your eyes from her.  
“Nothing comes to mind. I'm Kanaya, though. It's nice to meet you.” The two of you shake hands. Her touch sends a jolt through your system, and you try to hide the fact your palms are sweaty. A thin smile plays on her midnight-tinted lips, and you can feel the butterflies multiply. Your heart is pounding.  
You look her over once more as the two of you engage in polite conversation. She proves to be almost as elegant as yourself, though she doesn't look much older.  
Perhaps...  
Perhaps you might have found yourself an owner for that dress.


End file.
